Of Petticoats and Piercings
by Vegetarian Salad
Summary: ArashixMiwako oneshots. Ch. 3: He shows her how punk rock she really is.
1. Chapter 1

Note from the Author: My prompt was watching a boy I love taking off his make-up.

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My favorite moments, the ones that make my life truly special, came twice a week – Friday and Saturday, as the clock's ticking brings us close to midnight.

These evenings I wear a medley of black and pink, or red, or green, depending upon the venue, and what Arashi is wearing. He never asks me to change how I dress, and I don't ever change it much. My skirts are still full, and my shoes still click when I walk. My hair shines as vibrantly as ever.

But, I don't want to be the girl that looks out of place, mostly because I don't want the punk rock kids to think badly of Arashi. He is a god of punk, or at least an angel, or a nymph. His life revolves around his guitar, and I will not allow myself to hold him back, to let them judge him because I don't belong. So, I try to belong.

But, I am always relieved when I can loose the multi-colored extensions from my head, letting my own hair cushion me as I kick out of my shoes and wiggle from my clothes, sighing into the relaxation of Arashi's blankets.

These are my favorite moments. My feet kicking through the air, bare and free, and my chin resting in the cup of my hand, I watch Arashi seize to be a punk kid. I am the only one who gets to see his tough pretense drop, to watch him leave that extraordinary worldly man and just be _normal._

He steps out of his sneakers, and they rest like precious jewels beside the door, in perfect symmetry. He runs a hand through his clean, wet hair, and it falls in yellow strings around his face as he washes away his eyeliner. Beneath the black make-up, with many of his piercings removed, he looks so young, like a boy I used to know. But, the tired lines around his eyes give him away, and he smiles wearily at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

I smile back, as brightly as I can, and roll over for him to crash onto the bed beside me, pulling me close to him, his head resting against my chest. His sigh is soft as it brushes over me, and I know without looking that his is dozing already.

These are the moments that remind me how wonderful he is. All day, he wears this façade of steely reserve, mixed with a carefree laziness that doesn't truly exist in him. During the day, he is a walking montage of chains and stripes and ink and eyeliner. But, now, in the soft life of midnight streetlamps, I see him clearly, in all his tender vulnerability.

They all wonder why bubbly little me clings to bored gloomy him. I know they ask the question behind my back. But, I don't mind. I know exactly what he is. He is Arashi, and that is good enough.


	2. Chapter 2

Note from the Author: I'm still waiting for you guys to declare me dead. I am so lazy when it comes to typing. In reality, I should type them as soon as I write them because I keep writing and then I have this whole crap load of stuff to type up.

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His eyelashes are full and dark, and they flutter gently against his porcelain skin as he sleeps. My fingers brush lightly across their soft black tips.

They infuriate me. With their elegance, they make my heart writhe; I wonder why, with all the mascara I apply, mine are not as beautiful as his. His are flawless and effortless, and I envy him.

My mouth is evanescent against his skin, my lips fleeting across each secret freckle on his cheek. He does his best to hide their existence, but they are impossible to ignore in moments like these, when we are so close.

His lips are parted, and a smile plays at the corner of his mouth. Even in slumber, he is joyous. I wonder if he dreams of me. Does he remember that I am lying beside him? Can he feel my quick kisses across his face?

A sigh brushes across me, and his hand slides along my arm where it rests against his stomach, and I smile as he stirs. I always smile for him.

His dark eyes are fluttering open, and he peers at me through his curtain of eyelashes. I think of that phrase: "The eyes are the window to the soul" and I frown when the curtains draw closed again.

"Good morning," he says softly, that strange soft lilt to his baritone voice that makes it so different from any other sound in the world. He speaks like a song, and I still marvel that he isn't the singer.

"Good morning," I whisper back, waiting for his eyes to open again, for that knowing gaze to settle over me. There is a roadblock of words in my throat. No one should call me eloquent.

He smiles sleepily, stretching, his lithe form moving against mine, and his arms come around me, hands skating across the small of my back, and he brings his lips to mine.

Our eyelashes tangle together as my eyes close, and I realize how perfectly wonderful they must look. He always makes me feel beautiful.


	3. Chapter 3

He tells me I have punk rock shoulders.

I giggle and ask him to explain.

He doesn't answer, not with words, because he never speaks more than necessary, and his fingers brush across the skin stretched across my collarbone.

I frown at the contrast between his black fingernails and my pallid flesh, and I squirm beneath his touch, tucking myself beneath the blankets so that he can't see how flawed I am.

He smiles in his gentle way, and his dark eyes are so soft that I melt into them. I am the only one who sees him this way, and I wish I could smile brightly and chatter like usual.

He takes my breath away, as always, and I am unnaturally speechless. I always know just what to say, but his lips press against the side of my neck, and my body shuts down in happiness. I wonder if I can force the overwhelming swell of love into his consciousness without speaking, using only my body, but my eyes only overflow, and I weep my joy.

He chuckles lightly at my tears and wipes them away, silently telling me he understands. His hand is gently on my shoulder and, quietly, he says they're very punk rock.

I sob out a laugh, and I wonder if I'll ever understand him. But, as he kisses me, I decide it doesn't matter.


End file.
